Don't You Know?
by FanficwriterGHC
Summary: What's left to hold onto but them? *Spoilers and Promo for Always.*


**Title: Don't You Know?**

**Disclaimer: If it's not Always, it's safe to say I don't own Castle.**

**Summary: What's left to hold onto but them? *Spoilers and Promo for Always.***

**Just a scene, a thought, a maybe:**

* * *

"Kate?"

She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face as she tries to suck air back into her lungs. He reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder, but it gets jostled off as tremors wrack her body. She gasps, a hand over her mouth, and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Kate," he implores, walking around her where she's collapsed on his sofa, waiting for him to come back with wine. He kneels down to get a look at her and she opens her eyes to meet his, removes her hand so he can see the smile on her face. "You're laughing," he says.

She nods and manages a, "Yeah," at him, damp hair plastered to her cheek.

"You," he breaks off and cocks his head, obviously concerned. "You're—but I—"

"Can't stop," she adds, gripping at the hand that's fallen to rest on her knee. "Really—I can't."

"Okay," he says slowly, and she watches as the corner of his mouth twitches upward. "I get it."

She nods and laughs harder as he begins to chuckle. He grins at her as his eyes start to water and he teeters, crouching on the floor, his hands gripping her legs as her fingers squeeze into his forearms.

"Not funny," he wheezes out, trying to meet her eyes as they squint at each other.

"Not funny," she agrees, nodding because she can't seem to do anything else. It's not funny at all. But it's either laughing or sobbing, and the former seems more pleasant.

He sobers before she does, and she stares into his big blue eyes as she calms down, drawing the little solace she can from him. It's more than she expects, because her lips are still warm from his kiss and his hands are like flames on her wet, denim clad thighs.

"I resigned," she says, and boy, does that bring her crashing back to reality. "I—I quit."

"It's not binding," he says immediately, his hands clenching slightly. "You can go back. Gates will understand."

"I fell off my building grappling with an assassin on the roof," she continues. She's not really hearing him, but she does keep her hands on his arms, lets him anchor her.

"You're alive," he offers, and if she could get out of her head, she'd kiss him all over again for the immense gratitude on his face for her continued life.

"I'm—I'm soaked," she adds. "Crap, I'm soaking your couch. It's leather, that's not—" his fingers press against her lips and she swallows her words, slogs back to find him, here, in the loft, safe and sound and with him.

"Couch is not important," he intones. "And I told you we should get you changed but you just, well, I got distracted." She huffs something like a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob to her own ears. "But we can get you into sweats, or a bath—anything."

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out—the laughter chased away by the job and the roof and the rain. "I resigned."

He nods slowly. "You did."

"I don't know what—Castle, I resigned," she repeats, stuck, shocked, stilted.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Let's get you into something dry. No wine."

"No wine," she repeats, trying to smile, but her face won't cooperate.

She watches as he pushes off from the floor, grimacing at her with a self-deprecating chuckle. She just shakes her head and takes the hands he extends to her, the ones that dwarf her palms and heat her fingers—that send shockwaves through her body, reigniting her.

"You said you loved me," she says, obviously not quite in control of her words just yet.

He smiles. "Yeah. You kinda said it back."

She nods and feels a twitch, a smile, cross her face before she arches up to press her lips to his, latching on to the only thing that feels real at all—to him. But she's not wounded, not dying, not broken anymore. She left it behind, put the case behind her, even if it's following her. She's not following it. For him. For life. For this between them, she's let it go.

"Kate," he murmurs, breaking away to cradle her face in his hands. "Not—clothes and sleep."

She frowns and winds her hands into his shirt, tugging him in by his waist. "Love you," she says, trying to reach him, find his lips, live in the fire of his mouth and his hands and his heart—something solid and steady and permanent. "Don't baby me."

"I'm not," he mumbles as she succeeds, nipping at his bottom lip as one of her hands trails up his back to yank him into her. His hands slide into her hair as he grunts and gives in, claiming her mouth for his, her waist for the heat of his broad palm, her intake for his exhale. "No talking?"

She pulls away and settles her eyes on him with a glare—normal, them, sturdy. "Five minutes in and picking a role?"

He laughs, loud and free and tugs gently on the hair he's fisted into his hand. "Hey, talking does not mean I'm choosing to wear the skirt or the pants. It's been working for us."

She has to laugh at that, has to agree, but still. "Done talking. I don't want to talk. I don't have a job. I don't have—I don't even know if I can go back to my apartment."

"Kate," he sighs, conflicted. "I don't know that this—"

"I have you," she asserts, trying to get him to understand. "Not a replacement, not a crutch—I have you. We have this."

"You do. We do," he agrees, nodding against her forehead, drawing her back in.

"Then let me have you tonight," she implores, smiling as he gapes at her. "And tomorrow we can talk, and grovel at Gates' feet, and pay the hospital bills, and worry about the summer."

"Tomorrow," he repeats.

"I promise."

"You promise?" he prompts, his face suddenly hard and serious and hot—oh, it's not the right time to think that. "There's no going back, no running."

She laughs. "Where would I run, Castle?"

"I'm serious," he growls, his hand squeezing her hip.

"So am I," she grunts back, resisting the urge to twist his ear—stupid man. "You've got me. I'm here. Tomorrow."

He sighs and stares hard at her, assessing her, but she's had enough. She's done waiting and letting him wonder. This is it, come hell or high water—come more assassins, or precincts, or books. She has him, and she's not letting go.

"Take me to bed or I'll take care of myself," she threatens, low and throaty, before she steps back and makes a bolt for the bedroom. "Come on, Ricky. Keep up."

His eyes widen and his jaw goes slack for only a moment before he chases after her, catching her just as she clears the threshold to his room. He spins her in his arms and then his mouth is hot on hers, his hands almost bruising as he crushes her to him, pulling her into his broad chest, into the heat of his body.

"I can't believe you even suggested that," he rasps into her ear as his lips trail up her neck, his hands scorching fire across her damp body. "As if."

"Think you can handle it?" she gasps as he finds her pulse and she fists a hand into his hair.

He rears back and fixes her with his gaze, eyes dark and aroused and captivating. "Always—don't you know what that means by now?"

She smiles, feels it break across her face, cracking her open. "Yeah, yeah, I do."

They stare at each other and she feels the urgency leave them, the adrenaline and the anxiety crashing down around them in cascading waves until it's tender and wonderful and soft. The bed like heaven, his body the warmth the rain took away, his kisses a fuel, a healing, a balm—it's everything and more and nothing like she thought it would be.

And when they lie there afterward, side by side, linked by their fingertips, panting, she feels the last pieces of rubble crash down. Home. He's home. Apartment, job, or danger aside, she can come home to him, wherever they are. They're not a crutch. They're not a strategy to stay standing.

They're already standing. They're whole.


End file.
